Page 11 of Unlocked Dive

“Am I allowed to let you drink wine?” he teases, turning to face me with a wink and walking backward up the last few stairs.

“At your own risk.” I push past him, taking the excuse to bump him with my hip as I move toward the butcher block island at the center of the kitchen.

“Not going to tell me you’re an ‘old soul’?”

I lean against a barstool and roll my eyes. “Fuck no. Who have you been hanging out with? Twinks like me cherish our youth. Besides, it keeps all the pervy old men panting and eager to please.”

“Good thing I’m not a pervy old man.”

Fuck,he looks good in a smirk.

“My loss.” I shrug, and we stare at each other as the air between us blisters. He breaks first, shoving up the sleeves of his Henley and turning to the fridge.

“You like anchovies?”

“What?” Forearms are absolutely clutch for an aerialist, and his have caused all the blood to abandon my brain.

“Anchovies? Puttanesca?” He glances back over his shoulder. “Carbs?”

“Yes. Sure.”Anything you want.“Can I help?”

“Grab the big pot from the lazy Susan.” He jerks his head toward the cupboard in the corner of the counter and goes back to rummaging in the fridge. “Fill it up from the tap and throw in some salt.”

“So you’re saying you trust me to boil water?”

“Too much for you?” His eyes sparkle with challenge.

While I know he’s watching, I strip my hoodie off over my head, flashing my abs and flexing a little. I have ripped forearms too, after all.

“I think I can handle it.”

I should probably be insulted that it’s all he lets me do, but my culinary skills begin and end with scrambled eggs and boxed mac and cheese, so I wander around the loftlike kitchen as he starts pulling stuff out of the fridge.

“Exactly how oldareyou?” I taunt, spotting a current wall calendar hanging beside the pantry door.Like I don’t already know.

He glances at me, and then at the calendar, clearly amused.

“A local youth theater group sells them,” he explains, grabbing a sauté pan from a hanging rack. Yes, I know what a sauté pan is. They’re the ones you use to scramble eggs. “They’re a nonprofit, and it’s one of their yearly fundraisers.”

Well, that’s fucking adorable.

I trace a finger over today’s date.

“Jericho Wash—Alaskan Airlines 3:49 p.m.”written in neat red script. My name in his handwriting makes my dick hard.

I flip through the next few pages while he chops garlic and the smell of frying onions fills the house.Alice in Wonderland. Toy Story. Charlotte’s Web. Peter Pan. The last one makes me smile. I raise the next page—Willy Wonka?—and more red writing stops me cold.

August 1: “Jericho Wash—Evaluation due”

And two days later: “Alaskan Airlines 8:25 a.m.”

It’s not like I didn’t know I had a deadline. It shouldn’t make my hand shake and my head ring with panic—four months is plenty of time. Except I’ve already had twice that and I’m still waiting on my miracle.

Unless I’ve finally found it.

My eyes rake over the man currently rooting around in one of the cabinets, the hem of his shirt riding up to expose a strip of tantalizingly tan skin above his low-hanging jeans. Maybe he won’t be a cure for my busted brain, but my body is one hundred percent willing to let him try. To prove I’m still something more than an expiration date on a glossy page.

The red Sharpie hanging from a thumbtack on a string catches my eye, and I snatch it up. Pulling the cap off with my teeth, I gather the tenuous remnants of my will to scrawl “Echo Was Here” across pubescent Willy Wonka.